Heartbreak in the Valleys

by Francesca Capaldi

  Anwen accepted that this was how the middle classes lived, but wondered again where were the ingredients coming from, before they got under counters for privileged customers.

  ‘That is kind of you, Rose. However, I will be taking my morning coffee here, in the kitchen. It’s warmer than the sitting room.’

  Rose raised her eyebrows. ‘Very well, Miss. Let me take a cup and saucer off the tray, and a couple of cakes and biscuits.’ She transferred them to the plate already on the table.

  ‘I’ll take the tray,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Then I can talk to Tom on my way back.’

  Anwen went to grab it. ‘Oh, but I should do that.’

  Elizabeth was too quick for her. ‘Nonsense. I’m not helpless. Get some coffee for me while I’m gone, please, and your own refreshment.’

  By the time Elizabeth returned, Anwen had a pot of coffee plus a pot of tea for her and Rose arranged on the table, along with milk and sugar.

  Rose poured tea for herself. ‘I’ll take mine to the scullery. I want to get on with vegetable preparation. There’s pea soup and a mutton hash for dinner, not to mention lunch to be doing.’

  Elizabeth sat herself down. ‘Goodness, you need a break.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Miss. I’d rather get on.’

  Rose seldom stopped to take the morning or afternoon breaks with Anwen, who shared the time only with Onner, the washer woman, on Monday and Tuesday mornings.

  The cook disappeared, closing the door behind her.

  Elizabeth sat elegantly sipping at her coffee, her hair pinned neatly into a bun above a crisp, white blouse with a lace yoke. She also wore a black skirt that, like the others she’d worn, showed some of her calf.

  ‘You being here has done wonders for Rose. She’s a good cook but has always been a bit on the lazy side. You work even harder than Jenny did and it appears to have rubbed off on Rose. I’ve never known her make so much effort. How are you finding it here, Anwen?’

  ‘Much better than working on the screens. Though I do feel guilty. They need people to do the screening for the coal, which is essential for the navy.’

  ‘I know. I was threatened with eviction from the family home if I went to get such work.’ She shook her head impatiently.

  ‘That’s terrible.’ Anwen put her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry, Miss Elizabeth.’

  ‘No, you’re right. But there are other ways to help the war effort, you know. For instance, what you said in chapel about growing food.’

  The door from the hall opened wide. Tom strode in, shirt sleeves rolled up, no collar on and the top button of his shirt undone. It gave him a roguish appearance, with his dark red hair wild and a little too long.

  ‘Tom, do you always have to make such an entrance everywhere?’

  ‘Sorry, decided to come down for those cakes and biscuits after all. And a strong cup of coffee.’

  ‘There are coffee and cakes for you in the drawing room,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘But it’s cosier in here, sis. It reminds me of sitting in our old kitchen with Mamgu Powell as a child. Do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  Tom sat at the table. Anwen wondered if she should leave them and join Rose. It seemed impolite to intrude on the family. ‘I’ll take my tea to the scullery.’

  ‘You will not on my account,’ Tom said.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Elizabeth concurred. ‘Now sit and enjoy a bakestone and a biscuit.’

  Anwen did as she was told, really quite thrilled to be spending time with two such interesting people. They spoke of the end of the Gallipoli campaign in the Ottoman Empire, the recent train crash at Dowlais and the talk the following week at the Institute.

  Tom brought his full attention to Anwen. ‘So what do you do in your spare time, apart from read and attend talks?’

  She pointed to herself. ‘Me? I don’t really have much time to do anything else. Except singing with the choir from time to time.’

  ‘Do you play an instrument at all?’

  ‘Tom! Some people can’t afford instruments.’

  ‘Oh, on the contrary, Elizabeth, we do have a pianoforte in our front room. Mam used to teach me and Sara and my brothers a bit. I don’t often get time to play now, though.’

  ‘Your brothers?’ said Tom. ‘Have they left home?’

  ‘No.’ She looked down.

  ‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry. Life can be hell. That’s why we’ve got to make the most of what we have.’

  A retort lay on her lips: that’s easy for you to say. But she didn’t think what he’d said came from a selfish place. Just one that considered the reality of the situation. Make the most of it or sink.

  ‘We had a brother who died,’ he continued. ‘Eight days old. Lizzie was eight and I was four. Remember it as if it were yesterday. Poor little mite. Edward.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Elizabeth leant over to help herself to more coffee. ‘Enough of this talk now. I saw a snowdrop this morning, peeping through what’s left of the snow. A portent, I hope, for something better around the corner. Like spring.’

  ‘I do hope so,’ Anwen said. ‘I’m tired of gloomy winter.’ The way her life had gone recently, winter was likely to follow her into spring and summer.

  The grandmother clock in the hall struck the half hour.

  ‘That’s my tea break over.’ It was time to begin on the cleaning upstairs. ‘May I start in your room, Mr Meredith, since you are down here and it’s due a full clean today?’

  He pulled a face. ‘It would be better if you left me till last. Give me time to have a clear-up.’

  ‘Start in my room, Anwen,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Honestly Tom, what else do you have to do all day? I think it’s about time I involved you in a project.’

  He held up his hands as if in surrender. ‘Please, not one of your projects.’

  Anwen left them to their conversation, taking her crockery to the scullery to wash up.

  Rose was crouched partly under the table when she entered. She quickly got up, a carrot in her hand. ‘Put that on the table by here. I’ll wash it up in a minute. I’m still peeling veg at the moment.’

  ‘All right. I’m going to start upstairs.’

  ‘I guess you won’t be back down until lunchtime.’

  Anwen collected the tin box with the necessary cleaning items and left the room. She smiled at Rose as she departed, since the girl was staring at her. Rose half smiled in return and went back to scrubbing vegetables.

  * * *

  The audience was clapping what had been a fascinating talk by John Evans, a writer of travel books. That Anwen had been vaguely aware the whole time of Idris, six rows in front of her, sitting with Gwilym and Twm Bach on one side, his father and mother on the other, had distracted her a little. At least Polly Coombes wasn’t with him tonight.

  The last time John Evans had been here she’d sat with Idris. They’d held hands, him caressing her fingers, whispering to each other when something Mr Evans said appealed to them. The all too brief memory vanished, leaving her winded. If only she could block those memories out. He didn’t love her anymore, a fact that cut to the core of her being, but what could she do?

  Over on the other side of the room she could see Elizabeth with Tom. It was unlikely she’d have had the nerve to join them had she been on her own, as she’d thought she would be. It was all very well them joining her for tea in the kitchen, talking to her as if she were their equal, but out here people would say she was hobnobbing above her station.

  Uncle Hywel touched her arm. ‘That was a good talk on the Lake District, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Very entertaining. I would so like to visit there, but I don’t suppose there’s much chance of that.’

  ‘Too expensive for the likes of us. Still, it’s nice to dream. I like the talks about other parts of the country because we can escape there for a while. It’s a bit like having a holiday.’

  The nearest thing Anwen had ever had to a break was ta
king the train on a few bank holidays to Barry Island. She smiled at the recollection of tiptoeing over slimy seaweed on the way to paddle in the cool water as a child. ‘I’d be quite happy with a day at the seaside.’

  ‘Not much prospect of that at the moment. Do you mind if I go and talk to John Evans? I’d like to thank him personal, like.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  People were starting to gather in groups, raking over the details of the talk. She was wondering if there was anyone she could join when there was a tap on her shoulder. It was Meg Hughes.

  ‘Hello, cariad, here on your own, are you?’

  Anwen was about to reply when the double doors into the top tier of the lecture theatre were thrown open. A figure came up to the rail, laying one hand on it. It was Samuel Lloyd from Dyffryn Gwyrdd Farm. His countenance suggested he was not there for a social call, an impression supported by the presence of a rifle in the crook of his arm. The chatter decreased.

  ‘I thought I’d find a big crowd of you here. Good. I want as many of you as possible to hear this warning and take heed.’

  The room was now deadly silent, every single person peering up at Lloyd. He glowered at the crowd. Taking the gun from his arm he placed it upright, holding the barrel.

  ‘People have been trespassing on my land, look you. First, some of my chickens went missing. Thought it was the foxes, but no sign of blood. Then a sheep went. A fox can take down a lamb, but it’s damned hard for it to take a sheep. Then another went missing, then more chickens. Them hens do be for our personal use, see, and my wife knows them all.’

  ‘Are you blaming us, Lloyd?’ Isaiah said.

  ‘I’m not blaming you personal, like, Isaiah Hughes, but it’s got to be people from round here, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Might be. Might not be.’

  Lloyd continued his rant. ‘I’ve also found a coupla pigeons dead on the field with bullet holes. Then a rabbit in a trap, not one of mine. I reckon there’s been a bit of illegal activity on my land, see, and I don’t like it.’

  Reginald Moss, the manager of the McKenzie Arms, stepped into the space in the middle of the room. ‘You don’t own the pigeons and rabbits, Lloyd, they can roam at will. And pests they are, so who cares if they’re pilfered? Do you begrudge people food to survive? We’re not after starving now, especially when we’ve a war to help win.’

  The farmer lifted the gun a little, causing some to gasp and step back. All he did was bang the butt on the ground. ‘I may not own those animals, but I do own the land, see, and people are trespassing to get to the vermin. And you have to watch you don’t shoot a homing pigeon ’cos that’s illegal. Moss, I don’t see your hotel going without meat. My wife tells me there’s not only been a glut of rabbit and pigeon for sale in Iolo Prosser’s butcher’s shop, but recently some mutton. Now where has that suddenly sprung from, eh? And I’m thinking that people aren’t after feeding themselves, but making a profit from my loss, and I’m not bloody ’aving it, see!’

  Another figure joined Moss in the middle of the room, the large, bald crown of Iolo Prosser, his thick, dark eyebrows at odds with the lack of hair. ‘You accusing me of poaching, Samuel Lloyd?’

  ‘Where’d you get the rabbits, pigeons and mutton from then, Iolo, tell me that?’

  ‘From my usual sources. I don’t agree with Mr Moss, though. We’re hardly in the realms of starvation. I think, Mr Lloyd, that you need to be sure of your facts before you go around casting aspersions.’

  ‘And who’s to say your usual sources are bona fide? You wouldn’t want to be in trouble for receiving stolen goods, would you? I’ve already contributed plenty to this war with wool for soldiers’ clothes, have two sons in the trenches and one of my two daughters at the munitions. Short of workers now, am I, and spring coming up with new lambs. I’ll be losing those to the foxes next with lack of shepherds.’ He paused, lifting his hand to point a finger towards the room below him, sweeping it around to include everyone. ‘Sheep theft is a serious business, see, and you can be sure I’ll get the police involved. I notice that Harries the Police is here, off duty like, but I ’ope he’s taking notes.’

  A tall, thin, swarthy man, greying at the temples, stepped forward, hands linked behind his back. ‘I am that, Mr Lloyd. Come and see me tomorrow when I’m on duty and give me more details, if you will.’

  ‘I’d be glad to, Sergeant. But be sure, I will shoot anyone I find trespassing.’

  ‘I don’t recommend that,’ the Sergeant began, faltering to a halt when he saw Lloyd head away.

  Slowly the chatter began once more.

  ‘Well, there’s a to-do,’ Meg Hughes said, reminding Anwen of her presence. ‘I did wonder about all the extra meat in the butcher’s recently.’

  ‘It might be perfectly lawful,’ Anwen said, aware that both Isaiah and Elizabeth were heading their way.

  ‘And I’m Lillian Gish the film star. You’re a nice girl, Anwen, and too willing to see the good in people. No, something’s not right.’

  A nice girl, but not nice enough for Meg’s son. Or pretty enough. Or clever enough. Or – who knew what exactly? Oh, Idris.

  Isaiah puffed up the last steps towards them. ‘Are you ready, Meg? I’m wanting my bed and so is Idris. It’s early we’ve got to be up tomorrow.’

  ‘And I haven’t?’ Meg retorted. ‘Bye bye, love. I’ll pop in to see Enid next week, would you tell her?’ She took Anwen’s hands, squeezing them with affection.

  ‘Of course. And thank you for coming regular. She enjoys the company.’

  Meg was no sooner taking the first step down than Elizabeth was taking the last step up. She too was out of breath but it appeared to be more down to excitement than exhaustion.

  ‘Anwen, dear, what do you think all that was about?’

  ‘Mr Lloyd? He’s been put out and who can blame him?’

  ‘And clearly in need of some help, by the sounds of it. You told me a while back you used to grow vegetables. Do you know about cultivating them?’

  ‘A bit.’ She’d been an eager helper to her father in the days he used to dig and plant.

  ‘I don’t suppose you ever kept chickens, did you?’

  ‘No. My mother’s parents do, in Cardiganshire. I used to visit when I was a child and help on the farm a bit. But I don’t really know much about them.’

  ‘No matter, it’s something that can be learned.’

  ‘Are you wanting to grow veg and keep chickens at McKenzie House?’

  ‘Something like that. If I leant you a book about growing vegetables, would you read it?’

  Anwen laughed. ‘I’d read almost anything. Sometimes I fear the world could run out of books for me to read.’

  ‘Excellent. I must go and find Tom. It would be typical of him to forget about me and walk home alone.’

  Elizabeth gambolled lightly back down the steps. Anwen scanned the room for Tom. It wasn’t long before she spotted him, waiting at the bottom of the steps for his sister. Elizabeth waved at her, and so did her brother. She waved back. Her eyes strayed to the door where Meg and Isaiah were leaving with Idris. He was now eyeing Tom, approaching the same door. Idris’s gaze lifted to settle on her, his face oozing disappointment. She swallowed hard, imagining what he might be thinking. The maid, no better than she should be, giving in to the wills of the master. A similar storyline had made up a subplot of a novel she’d read recently.

  Idris followed his parents out, not holding the door open for Tom and Elizabeth behind him. What was the matter with him? He gave her up.

  But even as the resentment against him simmered, part of her hoped he was beginning to regret breaking off with her.

  * * *

  Reaching the entrance hall of the Institute, Idris’s conscience was bothering him. He should have held the door open for the Merediths. It was all down to Tom Meredith’s proximity to Anwen, the way he smiled at her. Anwen had never been a silly girl, but it wasn’t unusual for young women
to be taken in by men with money and position. Then ending up in the family way. They soon found out that such men wanted them for one thing. If only he could warn Anwen. But she would never believe he was simply looking out for her. And maybe he was fooling himself too. The green-eyed monster had him in his clutches.

  Elizabeth and Tom Meredith overtook them hastily in the entrance hall and soon exited into the night.

  Meg tapped his arm. ‘What’s wrong with you, bach? You’re like a bear with a sore head.’

  ‘You know what one of those is like, do you?’

  Isaiah pushed open the door. ‘I’m not surprised he looks like that. I feel like that too after Lloyd throwing his weight around, trying to spoil Mr Evans’s talk.’

  Outside at the top of the steps, lit only by lights from the Institute windows, Idris welcomed the chilly breeze. Somewhere in the dark he detected voices, arguing, one of them shouting louder than the other.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Meg said, peering over the wall, next to Idris. ‘Can’t see a thing on the streets late at night since they started turning the lamps off at ten o’clock.’

  ‘You stay here Meg, we’ll find out what’s going on.’ Isaiah indicated that Idris should follow him down the steps.

  Why couldn’t they just go home? It was nothing to do with them. He trailed behind his father, trudging through grimy slush.

  ‘I’m just telling you, like I told them in there.’ Samuel Lloyd was pointing at the Institute.

  ‘I was taking a stroll along here, minding my own business, so why involve me?’ It was Madog Rhys. He’d been here that night of the union meeting as well, when Idris had followed Edgar Williams out.

  ‘I’m not involving you. I’m just warning you like I warned the others.’

  Madog lifted his hand, screwing it up into a fist. ‘That sounds like a threat to me.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Madog mun,’ Isaiah shouted. ‘He’s got a shot gun, you fool.’ He tramped over to them, reluctantly followed by Idris.